


Freedom

by Aussie_Lass, maglor_still_lives



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Age, Gen, Horses, The animals are wiser than the Elves, Tissue Warning, Very sentient horses, a horse and his boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aussie_Lass/pseuds/Aussie_Lass, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/pseuds/maglor_still_lives
Summary: The story of Rochallor.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story written by Aussie_Lass
> 
> Art made by maglor_still_lives
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/loudlyinnerkingdom/art/Rochallor-2-853632406?ga_submit_new=10%3A1598809223

It was late morning on a sleepy, breezy day when the first master arrived. He was young, but acted twice his age. Most boys his size would have run merrily through the fields of Tirion with parents happily following up behind, pointing here and there to my brothers and sisters who ate lazily their mid-morning meal, or in the cases of the younglings, suckled as the sweet air caused wisps of our hair to sway to and fro. It was just enough to keep the flies away and not enough to be an annoyance. It is said by my foresires that when Lord Manwe is aggrieved by his brother or hears upon the wind the words of naysayers, that is when storms roll in, and storms are no place for my kind.

Perhaps I should pause a moment. I suppose you thought, as you began to listen, that this was to be the tale of some great Elven King, and while my path has crossed with the likes of them on more than one occasion, I am not that, and glad not to be. I find I am almost sympathetic towards them, to stumble through life on two legs instead of four. Some other Elf, then, or perhaps a Maia--but you would be wrong to think these things as well. I am a far nobler being than that, treated as mere animal by some, but to those who know better, always among the Free Peoples. I am Rochallor, Bearer of Kings, and as I stood and watched the boy approaching me in the field that day, I knew my life soon would change.

“This one,” he said, and I knew that was what he said, but his lips and tongue formed words making it sound like he intentionally lisped. I cocked my head to the side--better to listen well with one ear than badly with two--and concentrated on what he next said to the person beside him who I guessed, and correctly so, was his father. “He stands straighter than the others.”

“He is a bit young,” warned his father.

I snorted. What disrespect to speak of a horse’s age when they are standing before you! In reality, I looked younger than my years, which numbered two. I was born with a sister, and she was the larger of us. Mother took to her more than to me, and I only nursed infrequently until a mare who lost her child adopted me, with no further notice of the situation by my mother. You might think that cruel on the part of my mother, but when it will produce the best outcome, there is no sense in trying to care for two children and having them both die when the focus can be on one who lives. I pay no ill will towards her for what must have been a difficult decision, and I found my new mother to be fiercely protective--until a few months ago, when she bred again. I will admit, my loneliness may have played a part in my decisions that day.

“I will grow into him, and he will grow into me,” the boy said with an air of authority.

“Let us see some of the others,” his father gently said. Many other children might have pouted or fussed, but this boy hardened his features and scanned the field.

“Of course,” he said, sounding more like a counselor than a youngling. “Already in my life I have had great disappointments to bear. Why should this not be different?” And off they went, across the pasture, seeking out others of my kind.

“What did they say?” My sister. Always, she has remembered we are kin, even if the mother of my birth acts indifferently towards me. 

“I believe the little one is looking for either a playmate or a mount,” I tell her. “They are too well-dressed to have want of one of us for farming or mining or building, and I am far too scrawny to be of use for any of that.”

“You are still growing.” She nuzzled the side of my neck with the top of her head. “You will be a fine stallion some day.”

I return the affection, and then watch as the pair of Elves make their way to another group of horses. She knows I fear if someone should think me strong enough for farm work. It is boring, grueling work, and while there are those who thrive to pull a plow, I know in my mind it would be the death of me. “He has looked back at me twice,” I say to her, for I am now watching the boy as much as he is watching me.

“They say he lost his mother.”

I blink and shake my head. For those who are not Ainu or Elda or Eagle, death is a reality. For the two-legs who talk, it is unheard of. “How was she lost?”

“The old nags who gossip by the fence said she fell asleep and faded away when he was only a baby.”

I think back to the days when I felt abandoned, when my own mother would kick at me as I sought nourishment, or bit at me when my sister was still nursing and I would come around simply for the warmth of others. Only by the kindness of another did I survive. And now, as I begin to consider--is he really as young as I think he is, or do I perceive him as his sire perceived me. “I must go,” I tell my sister, and with one final nuzzle, and confidence in my voice, I say to her, “Tell the others good-bye for me.”

I start at a gallop, but I slow my pace. There is no need to act quite so foolish; whether it is maturity or simply that he is a runt as I am, too much frivolity may cause him to change his mind. I arrive to hear his sire talking with one of the Elves who live in a house in the middle of the fields. They have been good to us, caring for us with treats and tending to injuries. They even put up a fence to keep the wolves out. This one is their leader, and there is some bartering going on, something about the trading of goods, which is all nonsense to me. All I need grows up from the ground or falls from the sky, courtesy of Manwe and Yavanna. 

The boy notices me first, and since he is truly the person looking for an equine companion, I pay no mind to his sire and the other Elf. Instead, I come up close, and lower my head so that the boy’s curious hand can reach out and touch my mane. That is the best way to judge them, I have found. The boy treats me like glass, his fingers barely grazing the white strands. Then he ever so gently pets the side of my neck. It tickles a little, and I sneeze. The boy laughs, briefly, a moment, and then it is gone.

His sire freezes, and leans in to whisper to the other Elf. Perhaps the boy cannot hear, but my ears are keen. “He rarely shows joy. I think we shall have to have this one.”

The other Elf clears his throat. “He is a little on the small side,” he explains. “His mother cast him away in favor of the stronger foal. Usually, they die without their mothers.”

The boy’s sire glares at the other Elf, who bites his lip. If the boy heard, he is ignoring them. “I shall call you Roccolórё,” he whispers to me. He looks up to his sire. “May I ride him home?”

“He has not been broken,” says the Elf of this land nervously, but I already know what the boy wants, and he is small and gentle, so I kneel for him to climb upon my back. “My word,” says the Elf, and he shakes his head. “Well, Prince Curufinwё, I believe you have found your horse.”

A prince. He is a prince. And so the mystery of his demeanor is solved, at least in my mind. I am careful to tread lightly as we journey to the great palace in Tirion. It is something the nags nicker about in the fields, but it is more than I ever imagined from their chatter with the sparrows and pigeons who have seen this place. 

Later as I am adjusting to the stable, the door silently opens and silver beams of light shine into the stalls. The stars can be seen through the doorway, which is left open as the boy approaches my stall. For all my life, I lived beneath those stars, and now I have a new ceiling above--one to keep away the rain, and walls to shelter me from angry winds. I come to the gate, and he opens it and enters the stall. For several minutes, he says nothing, and simply strokes my mane. After a little while, I turn my head to better see him.

There are droplets clinging to his eyes, and rivulets down his cheeks. Even his nose is running. Could it be the pollen? I get irritated by the pollen sometimes. Please, do not let him be allergic to me, I silently pray to Oromё! Then, I recall another thing the nags have talked about, and how great emotions from an Elf can result in what they call tears. I rest my head gently on his shoulder, the way I would do with my sister when she was sad. I hope it will help.

It worries me when his tears flow faster. He sniffles and touches my mane again. “Your hair is the same color as my mother’s,” he tells me. “I miss her.”

What else can I do? I nuzzle his shoulder, and he buries his face against me and cries. An hour, maybe two, we stand there in the stall as it all washes out of him. Eventually, he is so drained that he is clinging to me, his arms around my neck. “Please, do not leave me, Roccolórё,” he whispers. 

How could I say no to this boy? I coax him to come with me to the back of the stall, for the day has been draining for me as well. We lie down in the fresh hay, and he falls asleep with his head against my side and his fingers still touching my mane. 

No matter what, I promise myself, I will stay with him. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

We continued in much the same way for many years. Both of us grew taller, wiser, and stronger. We rode outside of the city more and more. At first, we stayed away for a day or two. Days would become a week, and then weeks, and then a month or more. Common things made him curious. Sand, rocks, bark, and anything else he could fit into the leather satchel he kept with him. For me, it meant exploration in a world without fences. I learned a word of which I had no previous concept: Free. I was free. Yes, some would say I belonged to this boy, a boy to me always despite being almost a man, but we knew better. He and I were free. Free to roam and wander. My boy was always happier when he was roaming. 

A day came that he did not come to wander and run with me. I worried that he had been injured or detained, for surely he would not forget me. The next day he brought a friend. She was taller than he was, older perhaps, and she cooed at me and gave me treats at his bidding. I had met her before, when we were along the shore one day. She was digging holes and collecting clay, and I knew from the way my boy acted as he watched her that this was not to be a random acquaintance. His eyes stayed on her, ever as we traversed the beach, even as he passed and looked behind, and even as he tripped on the piece of driftwood I tried to warn him about.

My boy keeps his head in the clouds sometimes. 

It was soon after a trio, and the three of us wandered far and wide, exploring all the lands that the squirrels and hawks and foxes chatter and whisper about. This went on for a long while. Sometimes we would end up at the house of her father, and for a time they would make things while I grazed in the most beautiful pastures and introduced myself to the local mares. I was mostly uninterested in the items they crafted, though my boy always made me the most comfortable and intricate shoes. They were silver and gold, like the treelight, and they made my hooves shine as I walked through the streets. Sometimes, other horses were jealous of my hooves, or of the jewels in my mane, but my sister always told me there was no time in life for jealousy, vanity, or spite. If this was how my boy liked me to be, I was proud to be the shining example for horsekeepers everywhere. 

And then came the day my boy and his elf-mare had their first elf-foal! He was a sort of mix of chestnut and blood bay, and everyone adored him, including me. He was a delight, both as a child and as he grew. Their next was a bay, and something of a dapple grey after that, and eventually they had enough for a while team! I loved them all. 

My own family was growing. I stopped seeking out companions on my trips to the pastures, for they were now brought to me, whether we were at home or in some yet unmapped place on an adventure. Sometimes on return trips one of my children or grandchildren would be presented to us and join us. 

We were growing. Not only were our families getting bigger, but my boy was gaining members of his herd. He always had time for me, even when his work would cause him to spend days or weeks in his forge or study, when he did emerge he would seek me out, and we would ride together. 

One day, my boy returned in great distress. There was a flurry of activity, and packing, and shouting, and a fight between him and his elf-mare. Everyone left, with some traveling in one direction, and the rest of us heading north. The further we went, the colder it became. My boy rode upon me at the head of our shared herd. He was solemn, and would not speak, not until we arrived at our destination. Even then, he only gave some brief directions before he dismounted and disappeared. 

The accommodations were not the worst in my entire life but they were far from the life I had grown accustomed to. Nonetheless, I made the best of the situation and I reminded the rest of my clan how lucky we were to be in the care of such a great Elf. Not all of the other horses of our herd were my kin, but there were enough, and I held great influence over the others as the chosen equine companion of my boy. This was just a very strange new adventure, one that would prove longer than any of us anticipated, and which would end with another even stranger adventure in our future. 

That day, however, I concerned myself only with my boy, and hoping that he would come to the stables so that I might comfort him. As the hours drew on, I wondered if he knew where the stables were, or if anyone had told him where my stall was, or if the journey had caused him to fall into slumber without visiting. He rarely missed a visit, and I reminded myself that whatever the circumstances (and if I believed the goats, which I do not because they have vile tongues and oft lie), these were grave circumstances indeed. 

I was almost asleep when my boy arrived. He looked older than I remembered, but I took that to be an effect of the shadows. His shoulders were not so proud as they usually were, and his eyes lacked luster. “Oh, Roccolórё, what have I gotten myself into?” He came close and dropped down to his knees beside me. Then he stroked my neck as he sighed and played with my mane. “She left. Just like my mother, she left, and like my mother, I do not think she is coming back.”

Of course, I already knew he spoke of his Elf-mare, for she had been riding at the head of the other herd when we all left home. It made me realize, this was probably home now, at least for some time. It makes sense, really, that neither party should stay in the place where they reared their brood, though I am curious that all of his brood came with him. He has seven of them, and the finest Elf-stallions one would encounter, tall and mighty, and spirited like he is. I start to think of my own mother as my boy sits down and begins to unbraid and brush my hair. Nevermind that the groom already took care of every detail once we arrived. My boy is very thoughtful, and I would never begrudge him the chance to braid my hair more intricately than anyone else. He has very small hands with long, dextrous fingers. I even leaned his way to make it easier. 

“I appreciate you, Roccolórё,” he said as he finished and moved so that he could lounge against me. He is bigger now, but I am still reminded every time how he was the first night he came and cried to me. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve. The tears do not fall so quickly, but he is sad, and I rub my head against him to show I care, and flick my tail to keep the flies away from both of us. “I wish you could tell me what to do. I bet you would give sound advice.”

Of course I would. I am a horse, and we have excellent horsesense. If there is a storm, go inside. If there is a badger, run away. If there is a bear, run faster. Unfortunately, most Elves have problems of their own creation. A barn cat that had once lived inside the palace tried to explain concepts to me now and again, from property laws to Elven customs of marriage, and it all seemed rather complicated to me. Most of life is rather simple. Sleep when tired, eat when hungry, breed in late spring or early summer, and never stick your foot into a hole you are uncertain of. In fact, stay away from holes altogether if possible. 

However, my boy had problems, and I would gladly have given anything to have been able to speak to him to ask him what I could do to help him. Instead, I gripped the blanket draped over me with my teeth and pulled it over his shoulder in invitation to have him stay, for his hands were shaking now that they were not in use in my hair. 

“Sometimes, I think you are the only one who understands me,” he said as he adjusts the blanket and snuggles against me. He rests his head upon my back, and soon he is asleep. It reminds me of all of the times in his childhood when he would sneak into the stables to sleep in the straw with me. 

In times like this, I wish I truly could understand all he is going through. I do my best, and I keep to my promise, for as long as I am able.


	2. Chapter 2

The second master was a welcome change. It was not at all because anything happened between myself and my master. It was because of what happened to my master.

My boy. He was so sure of himself. So certain, he did not take me with him. Or perhaps, so uncertain, whether of my age or skills, he could not have borne the pain had I fallen amid his success. However, none of that was to be. I was left behind, and I only found out when the chaos that followed his death brought the news to me. 

There were too many changes too fast once we arrived and came ashore. In the aftermath of it all, there were arguments and accusations, and in the end, since no one could decide whose horse I was, I became no one’s horse. I was still regarded with the highest respect, still cared for and esteemed, but no one came to my post to see me regularly, nor did anyone visit my stable once they were built to ride me or talk to me. I was let out to graze and I was brushed when I returned. My stall was always clean, though it was the most cramped area I had ever been housed in. Sometimes I even bumped my head on the door when I was going to bed.

I do not like the sun, either. I want to make sure that my disappointment in the new system of light is made clear. While I am also not fond of the moon, at least it does not burn my eyes or lure me the wrong way with mirages, or cast terrible shadows to taunt me. If my opinion can be at all considered, and I doubt that it will be, I would much prefer that someone repair the trees so that we might all have normal light again. The way the sun and moon hide behind clouds is annoying, and sometimes a thing occurs where one gets in the way of the other. Those Maia really much talk to one another and stay on course! I found out they are being carried by Maia from an Eaglet whose parents had come from Valinor. You would think, if the Talkers can make rocks that shine and boats that can cross over an entire sea that they might figure out a better way to light the world!

I do admit that this was a time of much philosophical consideration for me. Never before did I have so much leave to do as I pleased. No one came to ride me, so I went where I wanted to. No one came to be in my stall with me, so I did not always practice the best hygiene while there. No one came to bring any mares to me, so I randomly found a wandering jenny one day, and the results were interesting to say the least. Left alone with my thoughts most of the time, I had much to consider about life. 

Perhaps that was why the second master was so welcome. It was becoming frustrating to me, to have such intelligence and such thoughts about the world, and to have none of the Talkers be able to understand me!

He arrived during the time we call dusk. He entered the stable wearily, and muttering some things I could not understand. Unlike the members of this herd, who are adorned in black with feathers of red, his tunic was silver and blue. I remember coming to the door of my stall and looking out to see what was going on. He had a bow, and a sword, and he was barefooted. There was also a limp in his step, and he looked exhausted. 

“Where in Eru’s name do they keep the trough?” I heard him say as he passed. 

If he was looking for water, he would need to enter a stall. I whinnied, but it was loud already from the sounds of my fellow horses discussing this unexpected visitor, so I scraped my hoof on the door. That reminded me that I really needed new shoes; I had not had new ones in some time. He turned, so I whinnied again. That seemed enough for him to get the message, and he came to my stall. Now that he was close enough, I looked to him, and then to my water, and back to him. 

“Of course it would not be communal,” he said as he unlatched my stall door and entered. He set his hand upon my neck, and I could feel the bones. I shuddered a little as he removed his hand and went to wash his face and drink. His breathing was a little labored; he looked tired and underfed. I felt guilty for having eaten all of my apples; I know Elves cannot eat hay. I pawed at the bedding to see if I had anything hidden in the straw from the night before.

“Findekano. Are you leaving? And do you need anything before you go? I have no idea how we can repay you this debt.”

Both the Elf in my stall and I turned to look at the person who had entered. It was the middle Elf-stallion of my boy. He was usually a quiet one, but quick to get frustrated or angry, and his face always showed it. He was pale, and looked remorseful.

Findekano splashed more water on his face and then washed his hands. The front of his clothing was wet now, and he flopped down onto the straw and only slightly lifted his head to look at Carnistir. “This is not meant to sound offensive, but I am not comfortable coming into your fortress or encampment or whatever you are calling it. I will leave when I am able. Supplies are appreciated.” He looked up at me, and then back to Carnistir. “I see you have horses.”

“We do,” was the answer. “They came on the ships.”

“Ah.” If ever a sound could be interpreted as spiteful, it was that utterance from the Elf sprawled on my bedding. “How fortunate you had ships.”

Carnistir’s cheeks began to redden. “We can discuss this later, but that was not the choice of everyone--especially not Russandol.”

Findekano rested his head back and closed his eyes. “I have nothing to discuss. I will sleep here and leave when I am able.”

“In the stables?”

“Better than with cousins who break promises.”

“There was no promise to send the ships back.”

“Right. We forgot to have you take an oath about it.”

Carnistir’s fists were balled up. He took a step forward. For some reason, I felt protective of the Elf on the ground, so I stepped to block Carnistir’s entry. He relaxed his fingers. “For Roccolórё’s sake, I will say no more. I cannot deny that you have accomplished the unthinkable in rescuing Russandol and returning him to us, and I am grateful for that. I will discuss with Makalaure how we can compensate you.”

“I am owed no compensation for the return of Russandol. I did that for him, not you.”

That was when I saw it--the same fire in another that my boy had. I came slowly around the stall and found my blanket in a corner. I pulled it over to cover the Elf, who raised his brow, but nodded to me.

“Fine. I will still let Makalaure know you need supplies.”

A minute or so after Carnistir left, Findekano sat up. “Did you hear him?” he asked me. “Grateful. Not thankful. Grateful.” He rolled his eyes and flopped back down into the straw. “Not that I did it for the thanks, but not one of them has thanked me. Not for this, not for Alqualondë, not even a single ‘never expected to see you again’, or...what in the world is going on with your feet?”

I looked down. I guess I was more in need of reshoeing than I thought. I snort as he reaches over and feels around my hoof. “Unbelievable. No excuse,” he said as he crawled over and checked another of my hooves. “How can they leave you like this?” He frowns and stands up to look me over. He retrieves a brush and starts to groom me. My eyelids droop. I remember how often my boy would braid my hair and I hope, despite his current state of being, that this Elf will do the same or know someone who can. He whispers to me as he continues to work, “I am going to liberate you.”

‘Liberate’ was not a word I was familiar with then, but I eventually learn that in this case he meant he was going to steal me away into freedom. I found it odd to consider once I learned the meaning, since I never thought I was anything but free before. I could have left at any time; I chose to follow my boy, and to stay with the rest of my herd when he died. 

I really did need new shoes, though, and I missed having a boy with me. This one seemed an awful lot like my first boy. When Makalaure came to the stable, Findekano had already brushed and braided my mane and was finishing my tail. “It is so good to see you. I asked Carnistir why you were outside and not--”

“This horse is being mistreated.”

Makalaure came into my stall. “He seems fine,” he said carefully.

“Look at his hooves.” Findekano came around and pointed. “Do you have farriers?” 

“Of course.”

“See to it that there is one here immediately in the morning to rectify this situation.”

Makalaure folded his hands before him but said nothing.

“Did you hear me?”

“I...did. Perhaps you are unaware that I am HIgh King.”

“I know of the acquisition of your title. Clearly I knew Russandol was gone. He gave me an idea of what went on while we traveled back here.” Findekano returned to my trough and wetted his face and arms again. “Make sure this horse is ready for me in the morning.”

“You are taking father’s horse?”

“Has he need for a horse right now?”

Makalaure took a deep breath and seemed ready to argue, but there was noise at the entry doors. A moment later, both Tyelkormo and Curufinwe entered. 

It has been difficult for me to look upon Curufinwe since the death of my boy. He looks so much like him, and in some ways he acts the same, but in other ways he is so very different. My boy was both compassionate and passionate, but his son lacks the empathy of his father. His brother Tyelkormo is of like mind in most things. They are the most dangerous of the Elf-stallions my boy sired, but they are all dangerous.

So is this Elf. I can easily tell as I watch him facing off against three who are taller and bigger than him. “I should have known you would not come alone.”

“He never said he did. Who was going to help him carry your supplies?” Both Tyelkormo and Curufinwe were armed. Tyelkormo had his arms crossed over his chest. “Food, clothing, medicine--we can provide you these. You are not getting father’s horse.”

“I see. Well, this is not a negotiation. If I could go to Angband and get your brother out of there unnoticed, I can certainly come back later to get my horse.”

Curufinwe’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. “That is father’s horse and it will stay that way.”

“Peace,” begged Makalaure before any more could be said. “He has no horse because we never sent the ships back. They could never get them across the ice.”

“We tried,” Findekano said bitterly.

“So, what are you going to do? Give him all of our horses?” questioned Tyelkormo.

Makalaure looked around the stable. “Maybe. Russandol and I need to talk,” he said firmly as Tyelkormo began to open his mouth again. “For now, Findekano needs a horse, and he is right. Father loved this horse, and none of us have been kind to it. Roccolórё deserves better.” Makalaure returned to speak directly to Findekano. “I heard that you had to leave your boots behind so that the load was light enough for the eagle.”

“I had to leave my harp, too,” he answered.

“I will see to it that both are replaced for you. The farrier will be here first thing in the morning. Are you certain you do not wish to sleep inside tonight?”

“I am inside,” he replied. 

“Very well. Sleep well.”

He waits until they have left to close the door of my stall and latch it. “No offer of food, no offer of water--such hospitality.” He stretches, and I hear several pops and cracks. “I can manage another day,” he says as he looks for the cleanest part of my stall.

I recall my search, and I suddenly remember a bunch of carrots that were dropped the day before yesterday, and I hope that the cats have been diligent in keeping the rats and mice away. To my delight, they are in fact behind the trough where I saw them drop, and I pick them up by the greens with my teeth and bring the long purple roots to the new boy. 

“You are a noble creature, my friend,” he says to me as he accepts the food. He insists we share, and again, reminds me of how my boy would have behaved. We eat the carrots, and then he falls asleep after singing to me for a while. His voice is even similar to my boy’s.

In the morning, he keeps a careful watch on the work of the farrier, and takes only the supplies he needs so as not to burden me with a heavy load. It is only as we are riding from the stable and to the meager encampment that I realize my life is starting over again. I am leaving everyone and everything behind.

“This is not how I envisioned it either,” says my new boy. “I ran off my mouth back there. They probably had actual beds. I have not slept in a bed for...a long time.”

He did not sleep in a bed that night, either. When we reached his camp, he was greeted with joy by many others, and was encouraged to rest in one of the small huts that had been built, but he refused. Instead, he stayed with me outside, telling others he was concerned wolves might come into the camp and attack me. Until a proper stable was built, my new boy slept outdoors with me every night, singing to me and playing the harp he had been given. “I am never going to leave you, Roccolórё,” he says to me one night. I still miss my boy, but I soon learn to love my new boy just as much.


	3. Chapter 3

My new boy takes me on many adventures. We travel even further than I once did and I see things I never fathomed. My new boy likes to go riding on his own, just the two of us. He is also prone to being even more impulsive than my first boy. It is not often that we stay in one place for long. We are constantly on patrol. 

Slowly, I transition from being a riding horse to being a warhorse. It starts when he puts a saddle on me one day. I did not like it. It was heavy and awkward and it made me twitch on one side. He spoke softly about it to me. “I know it is uncomfortable. I hate wearing armor myself. It is stiff and it makes me sweaty and restricts my movements. It is necessary. I cannot shoot arrows bareback. I could probably learn,” he amends. “It is much easier this way, and I can balance myself in the stirrups if I need to stand up while you are still running.”

Little by little, he adds to the saddle, which I thought was the worst. It is not. The bit and bridle are the worst. I snap at him the second time he tries to put them on me. His father pulls him back, but my new boy advances. “I need you to keep trying. In battle, it is not like our rides for pleasure. I need ways to direct you around enemies whilst I stay alert. I know it is annoying. It is necessary. We will not be an effective team without it.” I hate it, but I do see the merit of it as we continue to train together. 

Then there is armor, and the caparison, and a decorated headdress with large blue plumes. Everything is taken in small steps so that I am ready to accompany him in battle when the time comes, and come it does. On the eve of the battle, it is his sire, the half-brother of my first boy, who declares another change. 

“Good. You are here. We must talk,” his sire says when he finds us at the river bathing. “You cannot keep calling him Roccolórё. You know the rules, Fingon.”

My boy grunts. He hates the name Fingon. He has told me that often. “I am not changing his name. I never told anyone to call me Fingon, either. That is not who I am.”

“It is who you are on this side of the sea so long as Doriath decrees it,” warned Fingolfin.

“I do not see Thingol ruling here,” argues my boy.

“This is true. So as your father, and your King, I command you to change his name.”

My boy sets his jaw. His eyes darken and his pupils dilate. He sucks in air. “Fine,” he finally growls. “It would be Rochallor in that horrible bastardized tongue, would it not?”

“I believe that will suffice,” Fingolfin tells him.

I think this is the last change before we leave to take our positions, but I am wrong. He comes into the stable later and enters my stall alone. “I am going to do something, and I am going to ask you forgive me for this,” he whispers. I can see a glint of something metal in his hand. “What I do I do in solidarity with you. The armor is hot. The battles will be long. Sacrifices must be made.”

I watch him as he sits down on a stool and begins to sever his golden entwined braids. They end up in a heap on the floor, one after another. “We can grow it back after our victory,” he says. I am not sure if his promise is more for me or for himself.

When he finishes, I barely recognize him, though I know it is my boy. It is obviously him, and I know him from his scent. He approaches me with the shears and stands to the side for a moment. “Please do not kick me,” he says. “I do not want to do this, to either of us, but it is necessary.”

So far, he has proved right, time after time. I stand as still as I can as he cuts my mane so that the hairs are barely a finger long. It is strange not to feel it against my neck. He trims back my tail, too, and binds the short length so that it will not tangle in the armor or be easily grabbed by an enemy. Then he cuts the hair all the way back behind my ears and fits the bridle to check his work. I get a better look at him, and I am sure he took more care with me than he did with himself.

I am glad for it the next day, and the next, and the one after that. The battles are exhausting, but my boy and I press on and do our part to fight against the evil. When we encounter the dragon, some of my kin are set ablaze when their tails and manes catch fire beneath their armor. I am thankful for my boy’s foresight, and his kindness with the task. The two of us chase the horrible beast back, and I learn something about myself.

I excel at adventuring, but I thrive in battle. I feel I should not admit such a thing. It seems unnatural, but it feels right. When we return victorious, we both hold our heads high. While he recounts our fight with the beast to the other Elves, I tell our tale to my kin as we take a well-deserved rest in the fields. 

Several more times I accompany my boy into battle, until a wound to my leg almost costs me my ability to walk. I recover, but my boy is uncertain about bringing me back into battle after that. I am once again relegated to the life of a companion, and I am encouraged to breed with the mares held back from the battles. One of my great-grandcolts is trained to take my place, and I tell him all I know about war. 

He only survives seven years before my boy has to seek out another mount. The stallion who takes his place is not one I know. He only lives four years more. I am told by some of the horses who return that I saw battle at the best time, when the Elves were winning the most battles, and that the tide is turning for the worse. 

I want to go with my boy to fight, but with no way to tell him this, I make the best of it. I have a hard time feeling free now, but I know it is not his fault that there are walls and fences and barricades to keep us safe.

Then, an opportunity. After a rather difficult stretch, and a particularly bad year, my boy and his sire are talking about the war as they approach the stable. 

“...and I am going to be the one to go this time.”

“I know the area better than anyone!”

“You were there once.”

“And yet, I got there, and I got back.” My boy steps into the stable and stops. “I can go. I want to go. Please let me go.”

“You will stay here. I have already lost Argon, and I do not know where Turgon is. He may be dead, too. You must stay here, in case I do not make it back.”

“This is stupid!” My boy begins pacing. I can tell he is agitated. “You should stay here, too. If you go, you will just be another casualty.”

“I need to try.”

“And you call me impulsive!” My boy begins to circle the stable. “You will have to wait for morning. Half these horses are in no state to travel now, and the others are in no state to travel ever.”

“What about Rochallor?”

My boy freezes. He turns his head and looks straight at me. “You would have me send off my father and my horse to certain death?”

“Fingon, I need a horse. I am going, so you can either see me off with optimism and a hopeful demeanor, or you can pout like a child about it,” said Fingolfin. “Either way, I am going. Can Rochallor still run as fast as he once did?”

“Probably.” My boy dutifully begins to retrieve my armor and saddle. Wherever I am about to go, it does not sound welcoming, and yet, I am excited. I wish I was going with my boy, but I have felt for some time that I could do something more. On the other hoof, I am glad he is staying here, for the journey sounds like a dangerous one. He readies me gently, and when he retrieves the shears to trim my mane, his sire scolds him. 

“No time for that. Where is his headdress? I want to leave before the fire in my heart cools.”

My boy gives a nod and finishes the preparations. He holds out the reins to his sire, and then steps back. Once his father has mounted, my boy looks at us and says, “Please come back to me.” 

“You know I cannot make that promise,” says his sire.

I badly wish to tell my boy that I will try as hard as I can to fulfill his request. A moment later, I feel the telltale squeeze that is letting me know it is time to move forward. Fingolfin gives a shout, and I race off on impulse, unable to look back at my boy as we head to our ominous destination.

The battle is one recounted by many sources, and I will not tell you the same story again. It is the aftermath that only I can tell you about. I was chased out of Angband even as the king took his last breath, and I knew as I ran that I needed to return to my boy. He was king now, and I was the only one who could tell him. The body of Fingolfin was taken up by an Eagle, so I worried only about myself and trying to remember the path that would take me back to my boy.

There were wolves on my hooves, and no matter how fast I ran, they always seemed to be almost upon me. To defend, I need to stop and rear up or kick, but wolves can attack even as they run. Several times, they took swipes at me, but I managed to stay upright as I ran. Eventually, as we crossed the borders, there were guardians who let their arrows fly. They hit the wolves, but unfortunately, they hit me as well! Still I ran, even as some tried to call for me to stop. I had to get to my boy.

Whether it was day or night when I returned I will never recall. I remember those final moments so clearly. I raced up the main path which would take me to the stronghold. My boy must have been alerted of my arrival, for he was running towards me as I raced towards him. 

It happened only a few paces from the main gate. I stumbled on something. It might have been a rock or an unusual hole or a branch. I did not see it, whatever it was. I felt it. After all my running, I felt my legs collapse under me. I toppled, but still in motion, I could feel the ground scraping my skin. I felt one of the shafts of an arrow snap off. Worst of all, I felt the injury in my leg from years long past. I knew I had reinjured my leg, and I knew it was worse than the first time. Everyone around me knew, too, from the horror on their faces. 

My boy fell to his knees and cradled my head. “No...no, this is not fair...you made it back.” He bit his lip and blinked away his tears.

“Sir… Sire… we must--”

“I KNOW WHAT TO DO! GET AWAY FROM ME!”

The crowd that had begun to gather stepped back to give him room. I felt dizzy and worn out. I began to lift my head, and then I felt something else, in the depth of my chest. I began to cough and tried to lift my head again. 

“Roccolórё. You did it. You came back to me. You can rest now,” he assures me, this time not bothering to hold back his tears. “You did very well.”

I want to tell him I can try to stay. I might not walk anymore, but perhaps...perhaps there is still something I can do. I know how much he needs someone right now, and he is family to me. He is my boy. But I know my body is spent, and his next words convince me to stop trying to hold on.

“He needs you, too. Go on. Go back to him. Go find him.”

The last vision before me was the face of my boy as he held me and wept, and thanked me for all I did. I wanted to stay, but I also wanted to see my first boy again. I closed my eyes, and then…

...I was here. 

And here was...interesting.

There is no dark, and no light. No time, no matter, no space, no barriers, no boundaries. 

Now I understand freedom truly, for truly I am free here.

That is not how everyone sees it.

“So, now, I am stuck here, with you?”

“I am beginning to pity everyone else, who has been stuck here with you!”

“What were you thinking?! Going after Morgoth? Alone?!”

“You seemed to think it was a good idea!”

“Look how that turned out!”

I could not hear the voices the way they were in the physical world, but I knew I was hearing my boy and his half-brother. Arguing.

Some things never change.

“I thought if I fought him one-on-one, I would have an advantage.”

“What did you do, walk there?”

“No. I am not an idiot. I took Rochallor.”

“Oh. Great! So, you got killed, and you got my horse killed, too.”

“Actually, I do not know what happened to him…”

“Even better!”

“Excuse me. I hate to interrupt, but I had a very long day,” I say, for somehow, it feels like they might actually understand me now.

“And just who are you?” questions Fingolfin.

But my boy knows me. “Roccolórё?”

“Yes, please. I understand why it was necessary to call me Rochallor, but I really prefer Roccolórё.”

And there he is, my boy, once again. And in my mind, I see him as he was, as a child, when we first met, and he so badly needed a friend and companion. “Roccolórё. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Fëanáro. I have much to tell you.”

And it was as it once was, even if it was different, in this new place of the unknown. But I would be content here, for my boy was here, and I was here for him.


	4. Epilgue

“What the literal--am I dead? F---dammit! How did this even happen?!”

I lifted my head. My first boy and I had spent the day riding in the vast nothingness of the afterlife, except here we could imagine whatever we liked. We were sitting beside a river of our imaginings now, and he was braiding flowers into my mane. We had expected to be alone, though we could tell there were disturbances. This happened any time there were battles and large numbers of newcomers entered the halls.

This was not simply another guest. This was someone we both knew. It took me a moment, but I realized it was my second boy. 

My first boy realized it, too. “Findekano,” he said in greeting.

“Uncle Fëanáro.” Findekano began to walk in our direction. In his mind, he was wearing armor, so that was how he appeared, though he was divesting himself of it in anger, throwing the pieces onto the ground in a trail from where he had entered. In a huff, he practically threw himself onto the ground near us after the last piece of armor was in the river.

“Let me guess. You decided to ride off and challenge Morgoth like your father did and you got yourself killed.”

“NO. Well yes, but I did not get that far. You did that first,” spat back Findekano. He stretched out his legs and propped himself up by the elbows. “This time it was technically your son’s idea.”

“You really need to stop listening to Maitimo about everything.”

Findekano grunted.

“So? What was it?” asked Fëanáro

“Balrogs,” Findekano grumbles.

“Balrogs are the worst,” commiserates Feanaro. “I suppose I should be glad you were not able to ride my horse into battle with balrogs.”

“First, he would have been fine, he is an excellent warhorse. Second, he stopped being your horse when you died.”

“Oh, really? Because he certainly seems like my horse to me right now.”

“I am no one’s horse,” I tell them firmly before this can escalate. “You are my boys.”

Both of them think about this. “I suppose that works,” my first boy says.

“We can share,” says the second.

Feanaro rolls his eyes. “I do not really want to share with you.”

“This is not negotiable,” Findekano says as he plucks a flower from the ground. “May I help you with his braids?”

“Leave it alone. I heard what you did to his mane.”

“It was one time,” disputed Findekano. “And there was a dragon involved.”

“A dragon? Tell me about the dragon,” insisted Feanaro.

“Only if I get to braid his tail,” Findekano said.

“Deal.”

I do not know how long we shall stay here, my boys and I, but for now, we are happy, and what really matters more than that?


End file.
